


Darling

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: FrUK oneshots [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Femslash, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Nyotalia, Yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28496436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: A single text throws off Alice's entire week, and possibly her foreseeable future.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), Female England/Female France (Hetalia)
Series: FrUK oneshots [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/592582
Kudos: 7





	Darling

**Author's Note:**

> I'm separating this from an older series of drabbles because I think it can stand alone. Below is the original author's note:
> 
> A piece for @frukweek! I’m super excited that I found the time to do something small for this week. FrUK will always have a special place in my heart and I’m always glad to contribute to the fandom!
> 
> It’s not extremely related, but [ this song](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DR2Ag-2ifNqk%26list%3DPLTZm2bZvJHRGJVD_2F7XPWboVc5eyn07q%26index%3D27%26t%3D0s&t=NzYyMTA0ZjM1NmZjZGYyMThiZWVkZWRmYWViOGFjMTliZDQ0Mzg5ZCxKNGh6VHZ6cA%3D%3D&b=t%3ApAT1wv0SOEVxL2lavKPuKw&p=https%3A%2F%2Fimakemywings.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F186539727760%2Fday-5-nyotalia-a-piece-for-frukweek-im-super&m=0) was what inspired this AU. I like it as a sweet FrUK song!

[ Text from: Marianne Bonnefoy ] Happy birthday darling

The smell of rainfall floated through Alice’s bedroom window, rousing her pleasantly, calmly, from a restless sleep. She could hear the sound of fat raindrops slapping against the leaves of her plants, the roof, the gravel pathway that traversed the garden. At her ankles, Gildenstern was curled tightly into a ball, white paws covering his orange face, blocking out whatever light made it through the gap Alice had left in the curtains to let the breeze in. This was Alice’s favorite way to wake up; it seemed to reach deep inside her and soothe something restless in her soul. These were the times she knew her home was here, and nowhere else.

But that morning, the effect was nullified by the same bone-deep unease Alice had been grappling with when she went to sleep. Annoyed—annoyed with her inability to force it away, her brain’s unwillingness to let it go, with the whole situation, and above all, with the person responsible, she flung the covers back, disturbing Gildenstern, and got out of bed before she could wallow any more.

“Hush, Gilly,” she muttered as the cat made a noise of protest. The floorboards were chilly against her feet until she got her house slippers on and shut the window. Spring was supposedly afoot, but England’s idea of spring looked a lot like its ideas of winter and fall. Amelia’s various social media accounts had, as usual, been packed full of images of her at the beach, in swimsuit tops Alice marveled didn’t snap right off her, the bitch, surfing, roasting hot dogs, and sipping colorful beverages. Alice had loved her aunt and uncle’s cozy home in New Hampshire, but Amelia had jetted down to South Carolina for college years ago and never looked back. Sometimes, wearing two sweaters in early September or mid-June, and looking at yet another Facebook post of Amelia basking on a sunbaked beach with some of her equally care-free friends, Alice almost envied her.

Of course, she’d vomit nails before admitting anything like that, and Amelia was too obtuse to pick up on it. She’d invited Alice to visit several times, but there was something truly terrifying about the idea of being at the mercy of her cousin’s hospitality for any extended period of time, so Alice always found a polite excuse, and if none were forthcoming, simply ignored the invite.

The day was Sunday, and Alice had dearly hoped she’d be past this little emotional seizure by the time she went back to work on Monday, but the odds were not looking as good now that she was awake and not feeling any more in control of the situation. Sometimes the unease was surpassed by her irritation about it, which grew with every passing hour, but like a determined tortoise, the unease always won out. Maybe she’d work from home on Monday—or maybe getting back into her work schedule would clear her mind (although if Friday’s experience was the model, that was unlikely).

As she dropped down into a kitchen chair with her toast and tea, she woke her phone, and almost against her own will, navigated back to her messages.

The first thing on her mind when she woke up that morning had been the last thing on it when she went to bed the night before—and the night before that, and the night before that, and the night before _that._

_Happy birthday darling._

Darling! As if it hadn’t been two years since she had been in England!

“The right bitch,” Alice growled. She shut the phone off before her jumpy brain could start scrolling back up through the messages. There weren’t many there, truthfully—their communication just about cut off after Marianne’s last text from the airport in Rabat, with only a few sporadic texts between them since, usually commemorating holidays. It wasn’t unusual that Marianne had wished Alice a happy birthday, only that Alice had deliberately not responded to her “Happy New Year” text for several days. She had not decided if she was sending Marianne a happy birthday text—she had several more months to think about it, but generally made these decisions on impulse, and often regretted it. She wished she had not waited so long to respond to the New Year’s text.

Of course they had promised to stay in contact, and they had both lied. That was the way things _went._ Their relationship had been ill-defined from the start, and Marianne’s coolness in the waning months of her assignment had assured Alice that whatever it was, it would not survive the Frenchwoman’s flight out of Heathrow. So far, she’d been right. Alice loved being right, even when it left her with an upset stomach.

Still, they had each other’s numbers, so in some farcical attempt at keeping to their promise, and neither quite wanting to be the abominable ass who left the last text hanging eternally, they had exchanged these pathetic holiday wishes and one or two pictures of funny moments or interesting news clips. Alice had not meant to respond to Marianne’s New Year’s text at all—the vague emotion that swelled up in her when she saw it felt most akin to _anger._ How long would this go on before they let it die?

Swallowing hard, and rising abruptly, Alice threw out the remains of her toast, tossed her phone into the recesses of her room, and suited up to garden. She would _not_ spend the last day of her weekend obsessing about an innocuous text from a woman wholly engaged in another part of the world, and she certainly would not be kept from trimming her flower bushes by a bit of _rain._ Gildenstern clearly did not feel the same, and she spotted him in the living room window, cleaning his paws and wondering what lunacy had befallen his owner that she would let herself be out in the _wet_. Alice gave him a wave, and went back to weeding.

By the time she went back inside, the rain was little more than a mist, and after her shower, it was over entirely. Snuggled into dry clothes, she settled herself in the corner of a couch and tried to focus on her reading. For an agonizing hour she kept at it, although she had barely made it three or four pages.

“I need to get out of the house,” she announced to Gildenstern, who was asleep in a nearby armchair. He flicked an ear in response, and Alice ruffled the fur on his head on her way by, making him lift his head with a feline scowl, nipping at her fingers as she withdrew her hand. There were few errands she needed to run—a vest she needed to return, and the car needed gas, but with that done, she still dragged her feet about returning to the house. Instead, she went to the park— _I might as well_ , she reasoned. It wasn’t exactly a short drive from the house, and it was nice weather for walking. It was usually something that calmed her, and she thought it was working well, until her phone rang.

“What?” she snapped, realizing just after picking it up that she should’ve let it go to voicemail.

“Some greeting,” Marianne said, but the belligerent drawl of her voice was far subdued from what Alice remembered.

“I’m busy,” Alice said, delighted and appalled at her response. What was _wrong_ with her?

“Well I’ll keep it short then,” Marianne said. Alice could practically _feel_ her retreating. “I only called to wish you a happy birthday.”

“You didn’t call last year,” Alice said, exhaling a silent sigh of relief she hadn’t said _I got your text._

“No, I didn’t. Neither did you.”

“Was I supposed to?” Alice took a seat on a nearby bench, cringing when she realized it was still quite wet from the morning’s rain. She perched on the edge of the seat.

“Just an observation, dear.” Alice said nothing, and after a protracted silence, Marianne sighed quietly into the receiver and said, “Well that was it. Hope you’re celebrating well. Talk—”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just hang up.”

“I thought you were busy.”

“Alright, I’m not _that_ busy.” Alice huffed and shoved her free hand between her legs, bouncing nervously on the bench.

“So what _are_ you doing? Or I suppose, what _did_ you do?” Marianne’s voice relaxed some, and Alice let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.

“…you know. The usual?”

“You got wasted at a bar and punched someone over football?” Even with the fuzzy connection, Alice could hear that infuriating tone in Marianne’s voice.

“Oh, piss off. I went to the theater,” she said. “Not that I need to defend myself against your damn libel.”

“Libel requires a lack of truth,” Marianne said. “I seem to recall peeling you off at least three bar-room floors.”

“Two!” Alice balked in a futile attempt to fish her dignity out of a well. “Two!”

“What did you see at the theater?” Alice shifted around on the bench and shuffled her feet.

“ _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ ,” she said.

“Oh!” The enthusiasm in Marianne’s voice was genuine, and Alice sometimes forgot she had done theater in college. “Fantastic, you have some taste after all! How was it?”

“It was…” Alice tried to find an insult that could excoriate the piece for its cultural origin, while not offending the significant part of her that had loved the performance. “It was brilliant,” she admitted at last. “The guy playing Frollo was bloody _terrifying._ ”

“Fantastique!” There was a brief pause, which almost immediately became intolerable to Alice, and she quickly interjected.

“And you! What—er—what have you been up to?” Marianne let out a gusty sigh, and Alice could nearly see the put-upon flutter of her eyelashes.

“Work, mostly,” she said. “Oh, and eating—the food here is wonderful, but I’m probably desperate after four years in Britain.” Alice made a harsh noise of disapproval.

“You’re worse than a spoiled child. You _are_ a spoiled child.”

“Oh sweet bunny, you’ve used that one before,” Marianne chided. “Surely you’ve come up with something better by now?”

“Fuck off, I have better things to do than sit around thinking up appropriate insults for you.”

“Do you really?”

“Don’t be too jealous.”

“Hmm, I’ll try.” Alice wondered, from her tone, if Marianne was touching her mouth, which she did sometimes. There was usually a particular look in her eyes too and—Alice hunched over, cradling the phone against her ear, biting her lip.

“Hey, so…” She wasn’t sure what she thought would happen—that Marianne might take over if she let the sentence trail on long enough, but she didn’t, the wretch, so Alice was eventually forced to keep speaking just to end the interminable silence. “What, eh, what’s it like, there? Do you…like it?”

“A bit late to wonder about that, isn’t it?” While Alice debated whether or not that had been a jab at her lack of communication, Marianne went on. “It’s nice. Weather’s a bit warm, but not bad, and like I said, the food is delicious. There are lots of interesting things to do, and I enjoy the fashion.”

“Oh…yeah?”

“Yeah.”

More silence. Alice bit harder on her lips, tearing at the chapped skin. She squeezed her knees together. Clouds were darkening over the city again, making it look later than it really was.

“I always say there’s something different to enjoy about each of these positions, but…”

“But?” Marianne took in a breath, and Alice refused to exhale.

“I do miss you.”

“Then why the bloody hell is this the first time you’ve called in practically two years?” It burst out before Alice could temper herself, or even consider her reply. There it was—hadn’t people always said Alice was off-putting? She could remember at least _two_ times her grade school teachers had pulled her mum aside to discuss Alice’s dismal social life, and expression concern that she “didn’t get along well” with the other kids. _Pedantic twats_ , she thought. There was, though, a truth that even Alice couldn’t deny that sometimes, her speaking her mind ended with the absolute _worst_ result possible

“You haven’t exactly been blowing up my voicemail either, darling,” Marianne replied, with a response that most certainly could have been worse. Maybe Marianne was feeling patient today.

“Well, I--!”

“Wanted me to do the work?”

“Fuck off! Just fucking seems to me that if you really—missed me—you would have fucking _called_.”

“Was ignoring my text messages your way of telling me to do that?” Alice breathed in sharply and squeezed her cellphone tightly. She had left the long pauses as some way of punishing Marianne, or pushing her away, but some part of her had still hoped Marianne wouldn’t think of it that way, and would simply assume Alice had been too busy to respond.

“I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This…whatever this rubbish is. We’re not together but we’re not apart, and it’s just—rotten, all of it. That’s why I’ve been ignoring your text messages. It’s dead, Marianne.”

“Oh. Is that it?” Her voice was soft, pulling away again, but making no effort to shield herself from Alice. It was inconceivable to Alice, how frequently Marianne opened herself up to this kind of pain, and how she was not utterly abashed that Alice might know how she was hurting her.

“Yes.”

“That’s a pity. I did miss you.” Alice held her breath again, girding herself to break into the dolorous pause, when Marianne spoke again. “Have you found someone else, at least? Are you happy?”

“Happy! Bloody happy! How could I be happy with you a whole continent away! Bloody Africa!” Alice exploded, jumping to her feet. “Fuck!” She hadn’t meant to say that—she hadn’t even been thinking it, really! “Someone else! Why does it always have to be about someone else? Maybe I’m just tired of—being _miserable_!”

Marianne was quiet for a moment, but not long enough to allow Alice to continue ranting and saying regrettable things.

“I’m sorry.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. You’re right, this is…not good.” Alice wanted to throw up. Maybe she _would_ throw up. No—she wasn’t that pathetic. The only way she’d heave over a Frenchwoman was if Marianne tried to serve her escargot again.

“Well. Good. Then. We agree.” People always said there was no such thing as an amicable break-up, but what the hell did other people know?

“Have you ever been to Morocco?”

“ _What?”_

“Morocco. Have you been before?” Alice crumpled down to the bench again, never mind the wetness or pools of rainwater, and collapsed against the back of it, flopping her head over the back.

“No. Why would I have ever gone to fucking Morocco? And why would I go now?”

“Because you miss me.”

“Excuse you! I never said!”

“Okay, then you don’t.” Marianne sighed heavily, with much less of the configured drama of before. “You’re right, Alice. This is bad for both of us. It hurts. I miss you. But I understand if you just want to…stop. I don’t think I can keep playing this game either.” Alice was certain that was a load of bull—she’d never met anyone as masochistic as Marianne, especially when it came to affairs of the heart. Alice lifted her head and rubbed between her eyes, trying to force her brain and lungs to keep working.

“Why are you saying that like it’s not the only choice we have?”

“There’s always more than one choice, Alice.” Alice groaned loudly. Nothing was ever simple with Marianne, was it? Even a _break-up_ couldn’t be cut and dry.

“Well I haven’t exactly planned my vacation time to go jetting off to bloody _Morocco.”_

“Then let me come see you.”

“What, in England?”

“Did you move somewhere else recently and not mention it?” Alice bristled at the dryness in Marianne’s voice, but quickly let it go.

“Well I…the guest room is…”

“Your storage room? I told you you needed a separate room for all your books. How often do you have guests spending the night anyway?”

“Oh, sod off. Take a hotel room, then.”

“Mm, I seem to recall your bed being comfortable enough.”

“Hey, now!” Marianne giggled, and Alice sucked in a deep breath, her chest loosening at the influx of oxygen after the lightheaded conversation.

“Tell me when, sweetheart. I’ll be there.”

Alice almost did not want to make plans. If she made plans, there was a chance something would go wrong—and she would be disappointed. And Alice _hated_ to be disappointed, most especially by other people, and she did not think she could stand to be disappointed by Marianne again. But Marianne’s claim that Alice wanted her to do all the emotional heavy-lifting, so that when things didn’t work out Alice could just point at Marianne, rang about in her head. Marianne wasn’t _wrong._ The more distance Alice kept, the more she could shield herself from hurt, and look where that had gotten her—no less in love with a woman half a world away, but unable to bring her nearer despite all the daydreaming in the world. But Alice E. Kirkland—lover of Arthurian tales and Shakespearian battles and English military history—was no coward! Certainly not a woman to be galled by a _Frenchwoman!_ So she got the dates from work that she’d be able to take off, and hesitantly texted them to Marianne.

And somehow, miraculously, Marianne turned up on her doorstep when she said she would. Alice had offered (grudgingly) to come pick her up at the airport, but they both know that the drive to and from Heathrow was a nightmare. It was also a very expensive cab ride, but Marianne waved it off, and Alice had more fodder for accusing her of fiscal irresponsibility.

She was sitting on her couch with a cold cup of tea, pretending to be watching re-runs of _Downton Abbey_ when the knock at the door came, and she almost flung her teacup across the room. Marianne’s dig at Alice being high-strung bit back, but Alice brushed this aside and took deep breaths. She had deliberately dressed just the same as she always did around the house, stripping away the stress of choosing the “right outfit” for seeing Marianne again. The latter, of course, did not follow this line of thinking.

Marianne could’ve stepped right off the 1940s movie reels, her glossy brown hair pulled back in a bun that had either survived the flight, or been fixed between landing and arrival, her face done-up, wearing a _dress—_ a bloody _dress_!—and some chic boots. Even her slightly winged eyeliner seemed untouched by the hours of travel between Morocco and England. Alice almost choked on her tongue. It didn’t help that Marianne’s face split into a smile as soon as their eyes met—and that was not a reaction Alice was used to getting from people. Tended to be the other way—people scowled when they saw her coming. Especially at work.

“Hello Alice dear,” she said, her voice all soft and throaty and _French_. There was no _doubt_ her terrible English accept was deliberate, as she spoke not only fluent English, but Arabic, Turkish, and Russian as well, beside her native French. She had admitted as much to Alice during one of their many conversations about the merits and failures of the French and English. She stepped in to give Alice _bisous_ , and Alice could smell the perfume wafting off Marianne’s neck. Her cheeks were warm against Alice’s, and Alice had to fight the urge to grab the front of Marianne’s dress to stop her from pulling away. She swallowed hard, looking at Marianne, and then drew in her breath and leaned in to kiss her, just a bit, just for a moment. Marianne’s smile, which had been faltering slightly, returned, and she patted Alice’s cheek. “Good to see you too, sweet girl.”

Alice’s face flushed deeply, and she quickly got out of the way to let Marianne and her valise in.

“Here I was thinking it might take me a few days to get that,” Marianne hummed as she unwound her infinity scarf and draped it on Alice’s old coat rack.

“Oh, hush! It’s not too late for me to throw you out!”

She didn’t though—she put on a fresh kettle for tea, and fingered nervously at the packaging of the chai spice she had bought because she knew it was the only kind Marianne would drink, before dropping the bag into Marianne’s teacup. They sat at Alice’s kitchen table, and the sky seemed to promise rain.

“How long until you leave Rabat?” Alice asked at last. _How do you plan to make this work when you never stay more than five years in one place?_

“Oh, another year, at least,” she said. “You might like it there. They’re very fond of tea in Morocco.”

“Must be rotten for you.”

“Oh no, their coffee is quite good as well.”

“And where will you go after?”

“They’re thinking of sending me to Qatar, but I’d rather go back to Ankara, if I can. Just a train ride away from Istanbul!”

“Oh. You’re just trying to get to all the warm places!” Marianne laughed.

“If you’re asking whether or not I’ll be back in London soon, I’m afraid the answer is no,” she said. “At least for now, but these things change.”

“On the daily, it seems,” Alice muttered. She stared down into her tea, seeking to divine something from its watery surface.

“My family is covered for travel, though,” Marianne said pointedly, immediately afterwards taking a sip of tea.

“Why would your family want to go?” Alice asked, bemused.

“Not my _parents_ , Alice, my _partner._ And any children.” Alice colored again, and berated herself for the same failing she so often called out in Amelia. Thick-headed!

“Well whoever they are, I’m sure they’ll be lucky. Who wouldn’t be? Flying all around the world like that.” Allice was too much of a homebody for that. She needed her garden, her office, her cat.

“You could come with.” She knew that’s what Marianne had been getting at.

“I can’t. I have a job. I have a house. I can’t just…uproot like you can.”

“Not even to try?” Marianne pressed. “For an adventure?”

How dared she appeal to Alice’s inner adventurer, hitherto confined to novels and particularly engaging TV shows!

“My _job_ , Marianne.”

“You can work remotely! Or get some contract work as a writer! I’ve seen your writing, you could manage. You have a real talent.”

“This is insane.”

“Try this,” Marianne said, getting that gleam in her eye where Alice knew she would not easily be dissuaded from this idea, “come stay in Morocco for a month. Just a month! You can even bring the cat. He’ll love the weather! I’ve got a little yard and he can sun himself on the patio—it’s a cat’s dream.”

“Marianne…”

“Just try,” Marianne urged, reaching across the table to take Alice’s hand. “Come on, Alice. You were right before—we can’t keep going the way we have been. But does that mean we have to give up entirely?” She rubbed Alice’s fingers.

“I…”

“I want to try,” Marianne said, her voice just like a feather. “I want to try for you.” Goddamit—what was she supposed to say to that? With Marianne looking at her all sweetness and belief in love and whatever other bullcrap she ascribed to? How did Marianne manage to tap into so many of Alice’s girlhood fantasies?

Her eyes traced the shape of Marianne’s full lips, the lock of hair that curled at her ear, too short to be pulled into the bun, the way her eyelashes fanned around her deep blue eyes.

“Alright, alright! I’ll check with work about doing remote for a month…” The smile broke out again, the one that did not carry any of Marianne’s pretentious facades, and she lifted Alice’s hand to gently kiss her fingers over the table.

“Beautiful,” she said. “I can’t wait to show you everything.” Alice looked into Marianne’s sparkling eyes and figured she was owed at least _one_ impulsive and unadvised adventure for love. After all, the course of true love never did run smooth!

**Author's Note:**

> [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/765627) | [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/186539727760/day-5-nyotalia-a-piece-for-frukweek-im-super)
> 
> If you liked this, you might like...  
> \- [Impressions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762309) by katiebuttercup  
> \- [all that's best of dark and bright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988860) by Shachaai  
> \- [Romeo's Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016523) by Shachaai


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